


Hard To Love

by GhostGarrison



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 25 Days of Christmas, Anon Prompt, Christmas, Cuddling, Fluff, Guitar, Love Confessions, M/M, Serenading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 08:54:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostGarrison/pseuds/GhostGarrison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Timestamp based of an Anon prompt. Cas finds Dean's old guitar in Bobby's basement and Dean has to sort through his feelings after Castiel drops the L-bomb on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard To Love

It's been rocky, these past couple of days.

Over the weekend, late on Saturday night, while Dean was introducing Castiel to the wonders of the original series of Star Trek, Castiel dropped the L-bomb on Dean like it was nothing. He simply looked over from his seat beside Dean on the worn-out couch, the flickering lights from the TV illuminating the planes of his face, looked Dean straight in the eyes and said it, plain as day.

_'I love you.'_

Dean bolted from the room within two seconds of processing what had just been said. Lucky for him, Castiel didn't follow him up to his room, but instead still sat on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest with his arms thrown around them, a look of complete rejection on his face as he returned his unfocused gaze to Star Trek.

But that's the thing. Dean _did_ love Castiel back. And he's known it for at least a week, maybe more. At first, it was difficult for him to distinguish his feelings for the fallen angel. 

He felt admiration for the man who was once not a man, but had adapted quickly and without complaint. He felt comfortable around him, the level of comfort that usually only belonged to Sam. At this point, he felt like he was betraying his brother, but at the same time, Castiel had earned it. In addition, he felt proud of Castiel when he made the kill-shot when they were out on a hunt, and felt relieved when he was able to get up and walk away from brutal fights with monsters.

But, he also felt frustration and regret. He was frustrated to see his friend, a _fucking Angel of the Lord,_ walking and eating and living like the human he was never meant to be. He felt regret because Castiel shouldn't be living in Bobby's house. He shouldn't be living on Earth at all, he should be flying with his brothers and sisters in Heaven, living amongst the stars as some fucking 'wavelength of celestial intent.'

It wasn't that Dean didn't love Castiel back--that wasn't it at all--but rather Dean was afraid of love. No, that made him sound like a pussy. He was afraid _to_ love? Maybe. Besides, what had his unending love gotten him in his life? A dead brother, half-brother, father, and mother. A fallen friend who fell from high above. A post-apocalyptic world he couldn't save by himself?

Dean never did respond to Castiel's confession that night. The next morning, they sat at the kitchen table in their usual spots and barely said a word to each other. It was awkward, to say the least, and it pained them both to avoid the topic so blatantly. 

Castiel still wore the same rejected look on his face, despite his best efforts to hide it. Dean skimmed the paper mindlessly, not quite looking for a hunt, but keeping his eyes and attention occupied so they couldn't wander to a certain black-haired man. He tried not to talk too much either, aside from 'pass the Cheerios,' 'where's Bobby?' which Castiel had equally short answers, 'here' and 'out.'

*

Bobby returned around noon, with some supplies and a few more bags of salt to press into rounds. Dean was slumped unhappily on the armchair in the den, staring at the television but still not quite watching it. Bobby spotted Castiel at the kitchen table, pouring over the financial section of the newspaper, with the comics carefully tucked underneath the pages. He glanced between and took note of the heavy silence that hung in the air between them before addressing Dean.

"You two havin' a spat or something?"

Dean looked at Bobby, rolled his eyes and returned his glassed over gaze at the television screen.

"Wow, Dean, don't talk yourself to death." Dean huffed in response and shot a sarcastic smile at the older hunter, but he didn't make a comment.

"Well, then," Bobby started, addressing both of the men in his house. "Quit moping around, I've got something for you to do.”

*

Turns out, 'something' didn't mean a hunt, which Dean was truly aching for. 'Something' meant digging around the dusty blue plastic boxes in Bobby's basement, looking for a book older than dirt itself.

Bobby sent both Dean and Castiel into the depths of the basement to find the book on Kobaloi, which supposedly were like mini-trickster elf monsters, and Dean did _not_ like the sound of those.

They worked through the boxes systematically, checking the indexes and chapter names of each book, not knowing what book would contain information about Kobaloi since they weren't catalogued yet.

The silence between them was uncomfortable, and Dean had to hum the chorus of “Ramblin' On” over and over to keep it from being too quiet. He looked over at Castiel, who was surrounded by a semi-circle of blue plastic bins full of books. He was working diligently and with intense focus, as if finding the book was the sole focus of his life.

Castiel flashed his eyes towards Dean, his hands slowing down with their work. Dean immediately snapped his attention back to the bin of books laid out in front of him, digging back into his search.

God, Dean was such an idiot. "Listen… Cas…"

"It's alright, Dean."

"What?"

"Let's just forget it happened…?" Castiel offered, with a weak unfeeling smile gracing his lips.

"Uh…" Dean didn't quite know what to say. A part of him--an old part with habits ingrained in him over and over again through the years--wanted to agree and forget the entire night, the confession and Dean's embarrassing escape. But another part of him, the new still-raw part of him that has been secretly budding for a few months, wanted him to shout _'no! I love you back!'_

Dean snorted out loud at the ludicrous thought, catching Castiel's attention for a split second. Since when was he, Dean Winchester, going to confess love, to a man no less? To an _ex-Angel of the fucking Lord?_

Dean snapped out of his musings when he noticed Castiel was still patiently waiting for a reply to his question. "Uh, yeah. Let's do that."

 _'Way to run from your problems, Winchester!'_ Dean's consciousness quipped.

Castiel sighed quietly and nodded, Dean could almost feel the disappointment emanating from him. Placing the last few books back into the box in front of him, Castiel clipped the blue plastic lids back onto the boxes he was searching through and rose to his feet, brushing the dust off his knees. 

Stacking the two boxes, he hauled them up into his arms and carefully made his way across the cluttered basement floor to the shelves lining the wall. He walked up and down the row of shelves, trying to find a good spot to place the boxes. There was so much clutter on the shelves that when they pulled out the boxes, stuff from behind spilled into the empty spaces, leaving barely any room. Spotting what looked like a suitable space, he raised the boxes in his arms and began sliding them into the space.

"O-oh..!" Castiel managed to shout as a pile of blankets, loose books, frames, and other knickknacks came avalanching out of the top shelf onto him.

_Cla-ang!_

Dean's head swiveled at the odd but familiar sound. His eyes set upon a massive pile of junk on the floor, Castiel's limbs and the top of his head visible among the rubble.

"Dude, you okay over there?" Dean said from where he was kneeling on the floor, purposely not offering help.

Things began sliding off of Castiel as he shifted to stand up. "Bobby has--,” he tried coughing the dust out of his lungs, “--a lot of things in his basement."

"Yeah, no shit. If I didn't know any better, I'd call him a hoarder." Now that Dean thought about it, _'maybe…?'_

Castiel stood up and tried to work the kinks out of his neck and shoulders. He stood for a minute, examining the great mound of stuff that fell on top of him.

"Well, it's not going to clean itself up," Dean commented out of lack of better things to say.

Castiel frowned in annoyance but didn't take his eyes off the pile of junk. Dean was being an ass and he knew it, but right now, he didn't know how else to act. How do you go back to being close dude-friends after the disaster that was that night? Dean wished there was a book written on that floating around the basement.

Dean continued going through the books in the boxes laid open in front of him while Castiel started strategically placing the fallen items back onto the top shelf so that there was room again for the boxes of books.

It was only when Castiel tugged something large and wooden from the pile that caught Dean's eye.

"Woah, woah!" Dean's eyes lit up with recognition as he stood abruptly and nearly ran over to Cas. "That's my guitar!"

"Yours?" Castiel looked from the dusty beaten guitar to Dean and back again. "What is it doing in Bobby's basement?"

Dean ignored the question, smiling wide as he took the wooden instrument out of Castiel's grip.

"Ah, man!” Dean smiled as he reminisced. “I used to play this back when I was a kid."

"You play?" Castiel asked while Dean flipped the guitar in his hands, inspecting every inch of it.

"Yeah, for years! But then, I kinda... stopped." Dean's voice and expression dropped at the end of the statement.

Castiel was becoming curious, pressing for more. "Why did you stop?"

Dean seemed a little stunned at the question. _'Wait… Aren't things supposed to be awkward right now?'_ "Uh, I had to leave it here at Bobby's because my dad said it wouldn't fit in the car anymore. I swore he was gonna throw it away and I was never gonna see it again."

Castiel waited patiently for Dean to continue with the story, but only silence ensued. "Will you start playing again?"

"Maybe," Dean answered truthfully, the smile from earlier returning only slightly. "But it needs some work. New strings and perhaps a new bridge and pegs. It’s got a crack, too."

Blue eyes tracked Dean as he carefully propped the guitar up against the railing of the stairs of the basement and then returned to his stack of books. Turning back to the shelves, Castiel wondered if he would ever get to hear Dean play.

*

Castiel ended up finding the book on Kobaloi, much to Dean's dismay. Of course, with their luck, it was the last book pulled from the bottom of the last box they searched. Dean threw his hands up in exasperation and packed up the rest of the box to put away as Castiel ran upstairs to give the book to Bobby.

"Took you two long enough," Bobby complained, sitting at his desk in the study with a wireless phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder. He motioned to the phone with his hand. "This damn moron nearly got himself killed in the meantime."

Bobby took the large red leather book from Castiel's grip and quickly blew the dust off the cover. The book didn't have a title, but the leather was embossed with an ornate, almost celtic-like circle with a pentagram in the center. Castiel watched as Bobby began flipping the pages, eyes and fingers skimming the chapter on Kobaloi.

Castiel watched for a few moments more before wandering into the kitchen, bent on making himself a mug of hot chocolate. 

He moved about the kitchen in a practiced manner, like he was on autopilot. The bulk-sized tin of instant hot chocolate powder was where it always was, on the counter next to the coffee maker. His usual mug was sitting unwashed in the sink, so he pulled out the chipped white one with small pastel flowers printed on the side out of the cabinet. Castiel could hear Dean's footsteps go from the basement to the second floor as he poured cold milk into his mug.

A minute later, Dean padded into the kitchen while Castiel's mug of milk was warming up in the microwave. He went straight to the refrigerator, tugging open the door quick enough to make the bottles on the door shelves rattle.

He pulled out a bottle of Miller and glanced around the shelves of leftovers, eying the raw spell ingredients in their containers before closing the door. He carefully made his way past Castiel, circling around him with a four foot radius, not meeting his eye. He pulled a worn steel bottle opener from a drawer and cracks open his beer as he sits at the table, his eyes settling on the newspaper Castiel was reading earlier. He tugged at the corner of the comic pages, laying one of them over the finance section.

The microwave beeped after it's two minutes and Castiel absentmindedly nearly tripled the amount of tablespoons of hot chocolate powder stated in the instructions. He avoided Dean by standing at the counter and staring out the kitchen window while stirring his drink, deep in thought.

Seeing his old guitar, Dean had smiled. Actually _smiled._ Just a little, for a split second. Sure, he 'smiled' a lot during the day. Castiel never forgets the brief, cheesy flash of teeth when he gets a slice of pie at the roadside diners they frequent on their hunts, or the one sided smirks Dean gives witnesses to capture their interest during interviews, or even the goofy grins Dean has when he makes a popular culture reference Castiel doesn't understand yet.

But deep down in his gut, he knew most of Dean's smiles weren't actually real. They weren't honest in the least. They were facades put on for a purpose; to trick a witness into feeling more comfortable with them or to reassure Castiel and Bobby about his current state of emotion, or lack thereof. Even without his angelic powers, Castiel could still read Dean fairly well.

But this time, it was real, or at least pretty damn close. Castiel was curious. A seemingly harmless inanimate object could spark something like that. Sentiment, Castiel supposed. He had yet to really feel sentimental about something inanimate, it just wasn't a stage in humanity he had hit yet.

Bobby joined them a few minutes later, grunting in annoyance as he hung up the phone on the wall next to the others. He followed in Dean's suit and pulled a bottle of beer from the fridge before cracking it open on the edge of the counter. He took a few drags of it before leaning on the counter. The three alternately took sips of their drinks in the silence.

Castiel was the first to speak up, addressing the oldest hunter.

"I found something of Dean's on your shelves downstairs as we were looking for the book."

Dean's head perked up and Bobby waited for further explanation. "My guitar. You kept it all this time?" Dean questioned, looking more grateful than suspicious.

"That old thing? I forgot it was even there," Bobby said before taking a sip of his beer, but Castiel knew that was a lie. He smiled to himself, knowing that Bobby purposely kept something that Dean seemed to deem important.

*

After a late lunch of cold-cut turkey and cheese sandwiches, Castiel followed Bobby into the study. The older hunter fell back into his desk chair and began spreading what looked like newspapers from across the country over the surface of the desk. He didn't look up when Castiel entered the room behind him, but it was obvious that his presence didn't go unnoticed.

He skirted the edge of the room, trying to form what he was going to say in his head while ghosting a hand along the piles of books, stacked so high that they nearly hid the peeling red wallpaper. Some books were more damaged than others, looking like they just barely survived fires and floods and everything in between, but every stack seemed to get progressively dustier as he circled the room.

"What do you want?" Bobby grunted, not looking up from his newspapers. Castiel turned on his heels, tearing his hands away from the books and dropping them down to his sides. He wasn't aware that he gave the impression that he needed something.

"You're in here for somethin'. Otherwise, you'd be outside or readin’ or doing whatever it is that you do in your spare time."

Castiel frowned as he continued to stare at Bobby.

"Look, either spit it out and get out or pick up a newspaper and start helpin'." With a jerk of his head, Bobby roughly gestured to the cardboard box of newspapers that sat on the floor next to his desk, each neatly rolled up and tied off with a rubber band.

After a moment of deliberation, Castiel pulled the wooden chair from the corner desk across the room to Bobby's desk and took a seat, the chair creaking under the weight. Bobby was half surprised when the ex-angel picked up a newspaper and began scanning it for evidence of a hunt. As weird as it seemed, ex-angel or not, Castiel was now a hunter and he knew how to look for supernatural activity.

A few silent minutes passed by before Castiel opened his mouth to speak.

"Bobby, I have a question…" Castiel started, lowering his newspaper to his lap.

"Then why haven't you asked it yet?" Bobby said impatiently.

"Why… why did you keep it?"

Bobby flipped a page in _The Omaha Gazette._ "Keep what?"

"Dean's guitar. Why did you keep it all this time?"

Bobby sat back in his chair and focused his attention on the man across the desk. "Why are you asking'?"

"I doubt you actually forgot it was there."

"I did forget about it," Bobby insisted.

"But you still kept it for him originally. Why?"

"Of course I kept it,” Bobby spat. “Dean was crazy about the damn thing. You should have seen his face when John said he had to get rid of it. So I stashed it in the basement for safe keeping." Bobby folded _The Omaha Gazette_ in half before tossing it into an empty box on the floor.

"And then I forgot about it," he added after a moment of consideration. "If it was in the basement, it probably was pretty beat up." Castiel nodded. "He'll probably fix it up. Then maybe he'll play you something."

"Would he-" Castiel started before clearing his throat. "Do you think he will play something?" _'For me'_ was left out.

"I dunno," Bobby answered truthfully before becoming facetious. "But, I'm sure if you asked real nicely and batted your eyelashes, he'd play you something."

"Hm," Castiel mused before he stood up and promptly left the room.

"Gee, thanks for helping out," Bobby muttered with an incredibly sarcastic eyeroll, returning to his search for hunts.

*

Dean left for town just before five, settling comfortably into the leather of his baby's front seat with his old guitar settled on the floor in the back. He remembered passing some little music shop on that day that he took Castiel to get his first hot chocolate. He figured he'd drive around until he saw it, hoping it didn't close absurdly early on a Tuesday.

As it turns out, the music shop, a quaint little place called _‘Take Your Pick’,_ was open until eight on weekdays. Dean made a mental note of the store’s schedule as he walked through the sticker-coated glass door. A bundle of bells hung by red yarn taped to the glass jingled as Dean entered the shop, wiping his muddy boots on the worn black welcome mat.

The store was an assault on the senses. Guitars lined the walls on hanging stands, separated by category: new, used, vintage. The store seemed to stock mostly acoustic, but he could spot a few electric Fenders and a bass or two. There were shelves and shelves of different sorts of smaller instruments such as ukuleles and mandolins, and revolving stands of different types of picks and beginner music books. The front counter had stacks of boxed tuners and an old register chained to the wall. Dean could smell a dark, woody incense burning from somewhere.

“Howdy,” a voice with a western twang rang out from behind the counter. An older man with greying hair, wearing a red and white plaid button-up shirt and a tan cowboy hat approached the counter with a half-strung banjo in his hand. Dean could spot a large silver belt-buckle peeking out from behind the counter. If he had to guess, he’d bet the man was wearing authentic cowboy boots and spurs too.

How a guy like this wound up in South Dakota, Dean would never know.

“What can I do ya’ for?” The edges of the man’s lips raised slightly as he set the banjo down on the counter between them.

“Yeah, I’m here to get some stuff for my guitar.” Dean jerked his arm, lifting it up a few inches in gesture. The man’s eyes widened in horror as he laid his eyes on the old, beaten guitar.

“Boy, sweet Jesus. Is that yours?” Dean nodded. “Well, you’ve got yerself quite a fix-up job there. Whaddya need?”

“A bridge. Two packs of strings. A pack of picks. A soft-case if you’ve got one.”

“Jus’ set her down on the counter and we’ll get yer things.”

The man, named Paul Hedgepeth, lead Dean all over the store, enthusiastically talking Dean’s ear off about guitars and repairs and his favorite brands as Dean listened mindlessly. After only ten minutes, Dean’s arms became full with the necessary equipment he came for, plus a bunch of other things that the man suggested he should have.

“Yer gonna need some glue for that crack of yours,” Paul said, shoving a tube onto the overflowing pile in Dean’s arms. “Here, you come over here now and set your stuff on the counter.” Dean was happy to let the supplies spill out onto the countertop. Paul walked behind the counter and began quickly punching numbers into the register.

“Are you sure I can’t interest you in a new one? She might not play as well as you remember...”

“No thanks. Uh, sentimental, you know how it is.”

“I understand. These things aren’t always jus’ instruments, but an extension of our bodies and souls.” 

Dean nodded but didn’t reply. He picked a tuner off the stack next to the register and put it on the counter. Paul rang it up and put it in the large paper bag with the others before announcing the price. 

Guitar stuff was expensive, but the price beat out buying a new guitar, even if Dean didn’t want to in the first place. He paid with one of his many credit cards--a mister Hoppengermeyer was footing the bill today--before taking the bag from the counter and stowing it in the crook of his arm while picking up his guitar in the other. Before he knew it, Paul was thrusting a finger in his face.

“You’d best take care of that guitar. I don’t wanna see you in here with her in that shape ever again.”

“I don’t plan to.” Dean flashed him a smile and started through the door back to the Impala. “Thanks a lot, Paul.”

“Come by again!”

*

Castiel could hear the roar of the Impala pull up the gravel drive of Singer Salvage at about fifteen minutes to seven. He was reading while laid out on his couch in the den, with his quilt over his legs. Bobby is snoring a few feet away, reclined fully in the chair. He’d been hard at work for most of the day and Castiel suspected he pulled an all nighter the night before, so he was rather surprised Bobby had made it this far.

The wooden steps of the porch squeak before the front door opens and Dean comes through. He’s holding a large paper bag in one hand with the top rolled down and a black, guitar-shaped bag in the other.

Their eyes met for a split second before Dean’s gaze shifted to Bobby in the chair. He carefully toed off his shoes and walked silently past Bobby and into the hallway. Castiel waited for Dean’s normal storming up the stairs, but instead heard only quiet padding of feet as he courteously made his way up to his room. The door still shut with the normal gusto, though.

Bobby jolted awake at the sound of Dean’s bedroom door closing. He glanced across the room at Castiel before taking a look at his watch. He stood, stretching his neck and shoulders, looking out the window towards the yard.

“About time that idjit got back,” Bobby commented, making his way to the kitchen. Castiel joined him as the older hunter began rummaging through the cupboards. “What do you say, ravioli or pasta tonight?”

Castiel thought for a moment before deciding. “Ravioli.”

“Great, get cooking,” Bobby said, placing three cans in Castiel’s hands. It was rare that Bobby and Dean let Castiel cook, as he’s burnt nearly everything he’s tried to make for them. Baking was more his thing, but he didn’t get to do it often. Bobby wasn’t much of a sweets person, and Dean refused anything that wasn’t pie or Funfetti. However, Bobby seemed to know that not even Castiel could mess up heating up canned ravioli on the stove. Or he hoped so.

*

Castiel didn’t end up burning the ravioli and divided it between three plates. Bobby, following the smell of warm cooked ravioli, came into the kitchen with a small stack of books under his arm and grabbed himself a plate before sitting down at the table. He began laying out two books and opening them to bookmarked pages.

After heating up a mug of hot chocolate, Castiel joined him at the table, scooting his chair over to give Bobby’s research space. They ate in comfortable silence, Cas occasionally sipping away at his hot chocolate and Bobby flipping pages every few minutes, seemingly comparing the two books.

“Where’s Dean?”

“In his room, most likely.” Castiel hadn’t heard Dean’s door open once since he’d come home.

“Go tell him you made dinner.”

*

When Castiel knocked on the door, it opened up an inch. Warm light flooded into the hallway and across his face. “Dean?” he asked before slowly opening the door.

“Yeah?” Dean called as he jumped up from his seat on his bed. His guitar was in his hand and was sporting a new set of strings.

“Dinner is done,” Castiel said, not leaving the safety of the doorway.

“Right, uh, I’ll be right down.” Dean crossed his small bedroom and set the guitar against the wall near the door.

“Is it fixed?” Castiel eyed the instrument. Dean looked down at it too before brushing past him.

“The glue needs to dry,” he replied while descending the stairs. Bobby was still sitting at the kitchen table with his work when Dean, followed by Cas, walked in. Dean noticed that Bobby’s bowl was now empty and he had a newly opened beer on his left.

“Nice of you to join us, princess.”

“Nice of you to wait up,” Dean countered.

“Nice of you to stow off in your room by yourself for hou-”

“Your bowl is on the counter,” Castiel interrupted before things got heated. “You may have to put it in the microwave.”

Dean started heating the ravioli before going to the refrigerator to grab himself a bottle of beer. The machine beeped and Dean settled into his spot at the kitchen table, avoiding Bobby’s books splayed out over the surface.

“And where were you earlier?” Bobby said, not looking up from his books. Castiel took this time to start washing the dishes in the sink to occupy his hands, even though it wasn’t his turn.

“Out getting some stuff.”

“Yeah, well,” Bobby rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Just know I’ll probably have a hunt for you in a day or two. Langley just broke his ankle ‘cause of a wendigo out in Wyoming so he ain’t gonna be coverin’ that area for awhile.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Castiel quietly worked away at scrubbing the dishes while Bobby and Dean talked at the table. The discussion casually grew lighter in nature as Bobby informed him about the different monsters he’s been researching and how to kill them for future reference. Dean took in the information like it was his life calling, and who knows, maybe it was.

Dean finished his ravioli and put the bowl on the counter next to the sink where Castiel was drying a pot and promptly retreated to his room. Bobby’s followed him until he disappeared up the stairs before rolling his eyes at Cas.

“Idjit. It’s his turn for dishes.” 

Castiel shrugged as he put the pot on the drying rack. “I don’t mind.”

“It’s not about mindin’, it’s about everyone doing their share of the work ‘round here.”

*

The next morning, Castiel was woken up by the sound of a guitar being strummed from upstairs. He couldn’t pick out a particular melody, just chords lazily being tested out. It seemed like Dean wasn’t playing anything specific, but trying to see if he could still play after nearly two decades.

Dean was playing up in his room for most of the morning and Castiel could hear every song he played, although a bit muffled through the ceiling. He recognized the intros to several AC/DC songs and the chorus of a song he couldn’t recall the title of, something about an unfortunate moon. 

Castiel climbed the stairs as quietly as he could to hear better, but the stairs squeaked under his weight and gave him away. The playing stopped when he hit the second-to-top stair, the squeakiest one, and Castiel silently cursed himself for forgetting about it. He stood on the top stair silently, hoping Dean would think it was just the old house creaking in the wind and would start playing again.

Several minutes later, he realized that Dean was waiting for him to leave. He walked down the stairs, his heart lowering with every step.

*

Castiel tried several times over the next day and a half to ‘accidentally’ walk in on Dean playing his guitar. But nearly every time, Dean saw or heard Castiel coming and stopped playing. Cas would always storm away with a huff.

They were both getting frustrated at the entire situation: Castiel constantly interrupting Dean, and Dean constantly avoiding Castiel.

And Bobby just thought they were both complete morons.

*

For the first time in days, Dean approached Castiel. He cornered him in the kitchen, where Castiel was making himself a peanut butter and banana sandwich and a mug of hot chocolate. Bobby left earlier that morning to return a favor for a local hunter who had gotten himself into a sticky situation involving the Watertown police, so Dean thought it was the perfect chance.

“Cas.”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greeted him from where he was standing at the counter before returning his focus to his lunch. Dean stood wordlessly in the doorway for a moment before Castiel spoke again. “Would you like a sandwich?”

“No,” Dean replied, purposefully walking straight across the kitchen to Castiel. He took the small silver knife out of Castiel’s hand before shoving it back into the jar.

“I was making a sandw-”

“I know.” He gripped Castiel’s arms above his elbows and started tugging him towards the den. Confused, Cas allowed himself to be steered in front of the couch before Dean pressed down on his shoulders to sit down. “Stay here,” Dean requested before running up the stairs. Every other stair squeaked under the pressure and Cas heard the open and close of Dean’s door before the hunter appeared before him again.

With his guitar in his hand.

Castiel’s eyes went wide. “Dean--”

“So, I’ve been practicing,” Dean rambled, “and it was kinda hard to do that with you always trying to sneak up on me, but I think I got it down again...” His face was pained, like it hurt to be there, but Castiel still appreciated the fact that he was there and talking to him.

“And...?” Castiel prodded.

“And I wrote you a song!” Dean spat, coming out harsher than intended. He quickly composed himself again before speaking. “Listen, I know I’m not exactly a touchy-feely guy, so I’m tryin’ to do this in an easy way for me. So, I know I kinda ran after you gave your little confession the other day, and... uh. I don’t know, just listen.”

Dean brought the guitar up into position while settling himself on the couch next to Cas, facing him. He plucked a few strings before clearing his throat. He started playing the first few chords, and Castiel recognized them as the song he’s been hearing Dean play while sneaking up on him. And then, Dean started to sing.

_I am insensitive._  
I have a tendency to pay more attention to the things that I need.  
Sometimes I drink too much, sometimes I test your trust,  
sometimes I dunno why you're staying with me? 

_I'm hard to love, hard to love, I don't make it easy,_  
I couldn't do it if I stood where you stood.  
I'm hard to love, hard to love, you say that you need me,  
I don't deserve it but I love that you love me good. 

_I am a short fuse, I am a wrecking ball crashing into your heart like I do_  
You're like a Sunday morning full of grace and full of Jesus I wish that I  
Could be more like you. 

“Dean,” Cas began. Dean shook his head and continued.

_Cas, you've given me a million second chances_  
and I don't ever wanna take you for granted,  
I'm just a man, I'm just a man. 

Castiel sat perched on the edge of the couch with unreadable expression on his face as Dean finished his song. He gently placed his guitar on the carpet, up against the couch and waited for Castiel to say something. When half a minute dragged by in silence, Dean began to panic.

“So, uh, I was just tryin’ to say that...” Dean rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. Man, he really did suck at this touchy feely shit. “I was just tryin’ to say that...”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupted and Dean snapped his mouth shut. “... Thank you.”

Dean got a glimpse of Castiel’s watery eyes before he suddenly had an armful of ex-angel. Castiel may be human, but his grip is still unbearably strong. They wrapped their arms around each other and held on like if they let go, they would lose each other forever.

Cas nuzzled his face into Dean’s neck and shoulder, and Dean pressed his cheek against his unruly hair and squeezed the man tighter. Slowly, they both sank back into the comfort of the couch, still holding each other. There, they fell asleep in the comfort of knowing they were in the arms of the one they loved.

*

Around midnight, the front door opened and closed, but neither body on the couch stirred.

“Fucking _finally.”_

*

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own these characters, this idea (it was an anon prompt), nor "Hard To Love" by Lee Brice.


End file.
